Let Go
by SpreadingDread
Summary: Sherlock and John are thrown into another situation, somewhat similar to that of Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

_I finished signing my name, hands shaking. I'd left John once before, and I'd hated seeing him in such a sorry state. This time, I had no intentions of faking my death as I had the time before, but if Moriarty failed to kill me, I'd happily return to John, facing whatever punishment he had for me. Last time, he'd been too shocked to really get angry at me, but I'd seen that inkling of irritation behind the sadness in his eyes. I always did. It was so easy for me to read John, just as it was easy for me to read anyone else. _

_I picked up the piece of paper, and carefully placed it on the coffee table so John would surely see it. Once it was there, in full view, I turned towards the door of our flat. This was the last time I'd be in 221B Baker Street and it felt strange to have to leave it for good. This was the place where my best memories with John had taken place. _

_I didn't think looking around would encourage my confidence, so I walked swiftly towards the door, not wanting to feel any sentiment. I already had my signature blue scarf and Milford coat on over my usual black suit. _

_After I'd reached the door, I pulled it open, and rushed down the stairs, wanting to get out of there before I could see John. He'd surely ruin my resolve. Last time, he hadn't because I hadn't known him for long. Now, however, he'd planted himself under my skin, always in my head, and permanently in my heart. _

_Just as I reached the door leading outside, it opened. A million curses ran through my head. Only John would choose the worst time to show up. _

"_Going somewhere?" John asked, pulling his key out of the door. _

"_Yes. I'm… going to get tea, we ran out," I said, planting a smile on my face. _

"_Oh, no need, I just bought some," John replied, smiling back. He held up a plastic bag, with tea, eggs, and bread in it. _

"_Not the right brand, John."_

"_Of course it's the right brand. It's Earl Grey. You always drink Earl Grey. Sherlock, I've been buying your tea for three years now. I know it's the right brand."_

"_I want to try something new."_

"_Sherlock, you never want to try something new. Especially not with your tea."_

"_Things change, John. That's how people grow." My eyebrows automatically raised, and I stepped around him. I couldn't be in his presence for much longer, or he would crush my already cracked resolve. "See you later, John," I whispered, then closed the door behind me. It hurt to say it, but it was necessary. I knew John would soon find the note, so I had to get out of there as quickly as possible._

_I turned back towards the door, ran my hand across the "221B" for the last time, then walked out onto the pavement. As a cab neared, I raised my hand, calling for the taxi to stop. I slid into the backseat, muttering for the cabbie to take me to Tower Bridge. Just before writing my note, Moriarty had texted me this, "_Meet me at Tower Bridge. You have 30 minutes. -JM_" and being the curious man I am, I complied. _

Sherlock had closed the door rather quickly, and I looked back, confused. It was typical of Sherlock to just walk out, but it was obvious that he didn't intend to purchase tea. It wasn't my business what he was doing, but that didn't stop me from being curious. Shaking my head, I walked up the stairs, plastic bag in my hand. I placed the eggs in the fridge, next to a severed arm Sherlock had placed in there about a week ago. I dropped the remaining contents of the bag on the counter, then headed towards the living room.

It was always easier to just pass the time without Sherlock by watching television or blogging. We hadn't had a new case for a week though, so I was out of things to blog about, and television it was. I picked up the little pillow with the union flag off the floor, and put it in the armchair I usually occupied. I sat down on it, then as I leaned forward to grab the remote from the coffee table, I spotted it. It was a piece of paper, with handwriting I immediately recognized as Sherlock's. Confused, I picked it up, seeing that it was addressed to me. I quickly scanned it, and after I'd gotten through it, I was on my feet, eyes stinging with tears I had to hold back.

Sherlock was not off to get tea. He was off to his death. To meet Moriarty, and die. It was clear that he had no intention of faking his death once more. I pulled out my phone, dropping the letter on the floor. I quickly opened Sherlock's contact information, opened a new text to him, and sent, "_Sherlock, where are you? Don't do anything, please. For me. -John_." Knowing Sherlock, he'd probably ignore this. The last time he believed me to be in danger, he'd almost killed himself, and our growing relationship would not help this.

I grabbed my black jacket off the back of the sofa, and headed towards the door. Just as I reached it, my phone buzzed. I hadn't expected Sherlock to reply. "_Stay where you are. Don't try to find me. I'm sorry, John. -SH_" was all the text said. I wouldn't normally obey this command, but I had no clue where Sherlock was, and I had no way to find out. Sherlock had made sure long ago that no one could track his location using his phone.

I shoved my phone in my pocket without replying, slipped my jacket on, then headed out of the flat, and into a cab.

_As the cabbie drove towards Tower Bridge, I stared out the window. My phone buzzed, a message from John. I read it, quickly replied, and never received another one. I knew John would probably be out searching, but I doubt he would ever guess that Tower Bridge was my final destination. _

"_Here we are," the cabbie said from the front seat, pulling to a stop. I nodded, paid the cabbie, then stepped out. I walked up the bridge until I spotted a figure leaning against the edge. I knew it was Moriarty the second he stood up straight. No one else would take interest to a man walking across the bridge. It happened every day. _

"_Ah, you came," Moriarty called, smiling his sickly smile. _

"_Of course I did. I'm not one to miss out on a bit of… action," I replied, looking down at the water below, feigning boredom. _

"_Oh, I know you're not. I'm only surprised you came. Last time we met on a tall structure. Well, we both faked our own deaths."_

"_No need to remind me, I've stored that piece of information."_

"_I want you to know, then, that this time I'll be making sure you're dead. Or, that one of us is dead. No faking. And I've made sure that you won't be able to find a way out of it," Moriarty said, walking towards me. _

"_How do you plan to do that?" I asked, keeping an eye on him as he slowly circled me. Moriarty stopped in front of me, looking me up and down. After a few seconds thought, he pulled out a small revolver. I glanced at it, deducing that it was in fact real. The way he held it, making sure it wasn't pointing at any part of him, told me that it was loaded. "What? No games? Well isn't that… boring. Bit shameful that you've stooped as low as any other killer," I said, looking at the gun. Then it hit me. His previous words now made sense, and a smile hit my lips. "Oh, but of course. It is a game," I said slowly. _

"_Gotten there yet?" Moriarty asked, sounding bored, and a bit annoyed. _

"_Russian Roulette," I said simply. He'd said that one of us would die, and this was the best game to do that with. The name came from the country of believed origin, Russia, and the revolver spinning like a roulette wheel. _

"_Very good, Sherlock. Now, who'll go first?" Moriarty asked, smiling creepily, as he almost always did. _

"_A game of chance? There's no real thinking behind it." No matter how bored I sounded at the idea, it was all being feigned. I'd gotten bored recently, with almost nothing interesting in my life, apart from John and the occasional exciting case. I wanted to be kept on my toes, and this was exactly what I needed. _

"_A game to test your daring, Sherlock."_

"_But you know when the bullet will come out. You've loaded it yourself," I said. Moriarty would have been sweating, or looking at least a bit nervous if he didn't know._

"_I said a game to test your daring, not my own."_

"_Then I'll go first," I said, holding my hand out. Moriarty carefully placed the gun in my hand, raising an eyebrow at me. I looked at the revolver, smiled, then quickly spun the cylinder, quick enough for Moriarty to lose track of which chamber the bullet was in. I could almost feel the glare he was giving me. I smiled at him, then slowly lifted the gun to my head. I thought of John, knowing he should be my last thought, and I pulled the trigger. _


	2. Chapter 2

_The gun simply clicked, telling me that it had changed to a different chamber. I smiled smugly and handed the revolver to Moriarty. He grimaced at me, then held the gun to his own head. I watched as he pulled back his finger, but nothing happened. This time it was his turn to smugly smile as he handed it back to me. _

_We repeated this until we'd gone through five rounds. There were seven in the chamber, with only two pulls left. Moriarty seemed to be getting nervous, a few beads of sweat escaping his hairline. I, on the other hand, was ready to face death without a second thought, and wasn't nervous. I'd said my goodbyes already. _

_As Moriarty pulled the trigger one more time, he scrunched his face as though he was sure it would be him who was dying. When the gun just clicked as it had the last five times, my jaw almost dropped, but I kept my face void of emotion, as I always did. It was just my luck to get the final bullet. But I wouldn't cheat Moriarty out of it. I wasn't going to run. I wasn't going to turn the gun on him. And I wasn't going to avoid pulling the trigger. _

_Moriarty seemed almost as surprised as I felt, and he burst out laughing. "Oh, this is too good! Of course it would be the hero who would die. The angel. Most people expect the villain, and that's what happens in movies. But here we are, real proof that it doesn't always happen like that," he said, cackling. "Go ahead and do it, Sherlock." He handed the gun back to me, and crossed his arms as I held it to my head. I closed my eyes, picturing John's face, just as I had every other time, but each time, a new memory surged forward. It was painful to have to leave him, but it'd be harder on him than me. _

_I pulled the trigger once more. _

Just as the cabbie reached Tower Bridge, I heard a gunshot. I shouted at the man to stop the car, and he did so willingly, just as surprised by the shot as I was. I quickly hopped out of the taxi. Even if it wasn't Sherlock, I could try my best to help whoever the shot had been fired at. I ran towards the bridge, keeping my eyes pealed for any victims. As I got closer, I spotted the only two figures on the bridge.

The first was short, with brown hair, and was clearly wearing a suit. He looked too common to be recognizable from this distance. The other man was tall, had a noticeably long coat, a familiar blue scarf, and curly, brown hair that I knew too well. He was the one with the gun in his hand, and he was the one falling to the ground.

I stopped in my tracks, eyes wide. I'd known that Sherlock had come to his death, but that didn't stop anything from hurting. I could almost feel my heart breaking. Sherlock was dead, or at least dying. My other half was being destroyed before my eyes.

After a few seconds of pointless staring, I looked at Moriarty, who was cackling like I'd never heard anyone cackle before. I felt a surge of anger, and ran right at Moriarty. It was a bit before he noticed I was coming towards him, but when he did, he froze, which wouldn't help him in any way. When I reached him, the first thing I did was punch him square in the jaw. He seemed even more shocked by this, but by the time he'd recovered, my fist had connected with his jaw again. I continued to punch, knee, elbow, and kick him until he was able to fight back. The problem for him was that I had war experience and he didn't.

After much fighting, I remembered the gun I always kept tucked in my jacket. A few years back, Sherlock had told me I should always have one on hand, and now I always did. When Moriarty seemed to be in the middle of recovery, I quickly pulled out this gun, and pointed it at him. From years of practice, my hands were steady, even with the adrenaline pumping through my system. When he looked up, his eyes widened, and I could feel my own lips twitch up into a smile.

This man had caused too much trouble, and had killed Sherlock twice now. He shouldn't have been allowed to live. Without a second thought, I pulled the trigger, and saw the bullet hit him in the chest. I shot one more time, right in the center of his forehead, and he fell back.

I tucked the gun back in my jacket, and crouched down. I checked Moriarty's pulse, and when there was none, I walked over to Sherlock. He was still stirring, which shocked me.

He'd obviously shot himself in the head, which meant he should have died immediately. I sat next to him, propping his head up. He slowly opened his eyes, looking at me.

"John…" was all he said, for it seemed hard for him to form words.

"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm here until the very end," I whispered, bowing my head.

"John…"

I looked up again, forehead creased. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"The note. You… you read the note…"

"Yes, I read the note," I replied, confused. After a few seconds thought, it hit me. Sherlock had said he'd tell me the second thing if he saw me again. I was almost sure I knew what it was, but I wanted to hear it from his lips. In his voice. "What was the second thing?" I asked quietly.

"I love you, John," he said clearly, looking up at me, a sad look on his face.

"I love you too, Sherlock… I love you too." Once the words were out, he closed his eyes for the final time, and went with a small smile on his face. I knew he was gone when his breathing stopped coming, but I checked his pulse to be sure. It was also gone. I closed my eyes, remembering almost every second we'd spent together. Remembering the happy times, the sad times, and the difficult times. The last thought, and the thought that would forever stick with me were those last words. He'd used his last breaths to tell me he loved me, and I'd never forget that.

"I love you too…" I repeated, then leaned down, letting my lips brush across his forehead. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes." With these last words, I stood up, and walked away from the bridge. There was no use staying there. Someone would find the two. There'd surely be an investigation, then a funeral.

As I walked away, I felt a few tears escape my eyes and roll down my cheeks, but I refused to have a full breakdown in the middle of the road. I'd last until I was home, but once I was there, I knew there might be no stop to the tears.

I also knew the next few years would be hell, and I knew it'd be hard to let go of him, but with the strength of his last words to keep me going, I knew I'd survive, somehow. What would come, would come, and I'd meet it when it did, with Sherlock on my mind, in my heart, and under my skin.


End file.
